Tonight's the Kind of Night
by Joodiff
Summary: S4. Grace blames the summer heat for an unexpected decision she makes, but what happens subsequently is definitely Boyd's fault... Rated T for language. Angst warning. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N: **I think this should probably have some sort of warning for angst attached…

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><p><strong>Tonight's the Kind of Night…<strong>

by Joodiff

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><p>"<em>Because tonight'<em>_s the kind of night  
>Where everything could change…"<br>_

- Noah and the Whale,_ 'Tonight's the Kind of Night'_

This is the day that will lead to the night when things will change. Neither of them knows it, but this is the day. It's high summer in London, and the city shimmers in heat and ozone as the mercury climbs and climbs, heading remorselessly into the eighties and then up into the nineties. They are both suspicious of Celsius. They both know where they are with Fahrenheit, and they both know it's too damned hot in the CCU's gloomy headquarters. There's no direct sunlight, true enough, but though there is forced ventilation, no-one thought to install air-conditioning below the ground floor of the building, so each and every room slowly becomes a sweltering prison.

External fire doors are mutinously opened in defiance of Health and Safety regulations. Desk fans run at manic speed, and nothing at all stops the oppressive heat building and building. Tempers grow shorter and shorter. Office doors that are customarily kept shut are propped firmly open. The women fare much better than the men do. For them, it is sandals and light summer clothes, and discussions about the merits of various creams, lotions and ointments. The men are not so lucky. Suit jackets and ties are quickly discarded, more shirt buttons than are normally considered appropriate for the office are left open, shirtsleeves are rolled up, and yet still they sweat and snarl and snipe in the cruel, stifling heat.

This is the day. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the unusually high level of testosterone in the air that's being generated by the continual clashing of thick male skulls in the squad room. Maybe it's just summer madness.

Grace thinks it is going to end in a stand up fight. Grace thinks it is going to end with tempers flaring and fists flying.

Boyd knows it is going to end in a stand up fight. Boyd knows it is going to end with tempers flaring and fists flying.

They are wrong. Both of them.

They are wrong because as the long, hot working day finally starts to draw to a close, Mel inadvertently removes one of the combatants from the arena when she casually suggests to Spencer that they go for a quick drink. The dangerous tension sparking in the air lessens, but with Spencer removed, the character of that tension changes completely. She is still unaware of it, but this is the start of the night when everything changes for Grace Foley.

-oOo-

Grace watches Boyd covertly from her office as he prowls around the squad room, pausing now and then to either glare balefully at the Perspex evidence board or to take a drink from the bottle of water that seems to have been his constant companion for most of the day. There is no doubt in her mind that he is hot, tired and bad-tempered, nor that he will still be prowling long, long after everyone else has given up and gone home for the night. His light blue shirt is firmly stuck to his back, mottled damp patches showing darkly. When Grace becomes even more distracted and allows herself to study him far more intensely than she probably should, she realises just how clearly the phenomenon enables her to see the distinct movement of muscle under the shirt every time he passes anywhere near her office.

She wants him. It's not just the heat of the day. She's wanted him for a very long time. But maybe it's the aggressively high temperature that makes it far more difficult than usual to deny all the things she usually manages to keep deeply, tightly locked away. Grace is quite intelligent enough and self-aware enough to recognise her own folly, but still she wants him. Sometimes she thinks he knows, sometimes she's certain he doesn't. Generally, he is not an easy man to read, but he has a notable weakness for women – he likes them, and they like him – and he is more than capable of being deeply flirtatious when the mood takes him. Maybe he looks at her and he knows, and maybe he doesn't.

Grace wonders how he would react if she just pushed her stifling inhibitions to one side, threw common-sense to the wind and simply took a gamble. A direct, unambiguous gamble that not even he could misinterpret. She thinks she is too old, too sensible and too insecure to risk such a bold strategy, but she still wonders. She wonders about a lot of things. She wonders if he is as bold, capricious and reckless in love and in lust as he is in just about everything else. She wonders if he is as inventive and lascivious as she suspects he very well might be. She wonders if he is the kind of man who –

There is an irritable bark of command from the squad room. "Grace…?"

She wonders, just for a second, how he would respond if she simply marched out of her office, slid the fingers of both hands into his hair, pulled his head down and kissed him forcefully and shamelessly. But she has pushed that thought quickly away even before she's on her feet to answer the imperious summons. When she reaches her office door, she asks patiently, "What?"

Boyd gestures towards the board with the bottle of water. "What do we really know about Harrison?"

"We know he's never been charged with a violent offence, and we know he was serving eighteen months for theft when Karen was murdered."

His gaze is intent. "But they did have a relationship?"

Grace joins him in front of the board, acutely aware of the boundaries of their personal space. Even so, she is suddenly close enough to catch the scent of him – a potent mix of sweat, musk and cologne. She says, "Karen had relationships with a lot of men, Boyd. Just because Harrison has a record…"

He makes a sharp, dismissive noise. "You can tell me not to speculate once you've actually given me the profile I asked you for yesterday."

"I told you, I'm working on it," Grace says impatiently. "Along with the hundred and one other things you apparently can't wait twenty-four hours for."

Boyd shoots her a look that would certainly make a lesser woman quail. Grace simply raises her eyebrows at him and says, "In fact, since you're refusing to authorise overtime for this – "

"Oh, don't start," he snaps back at her. "I've told you a dozen times, the money simply isn't there. Do you have any idea of the financial constraints that are being put on this unit?"

"And that's my problem because…?"

"Fuck it," he says, suddenly back in motion and heading towards his office. "Just go home. I'll do it all myself. As bloody usual."

"That's not fair," Grace snaps, temper rising. "You can only push people so far before – "

"I told you, Grace, go home," he says, stepping into his office and slamming the door after him.

She glares after him, and for a moment she is tempted to follow him and continue the argument. It will not end well, she knows, and that's what finally makes her turn her back and walk away. Sometimes it's certainly worth losing a battle to eventually win a war. Only a few minutes later she is walking out of the building into the evening heat, intending to head straight home.

-oOo-

It's the tiny gallery on Randolph Street that's entirely responsible for changing her mind. Despite the hour, the doors are wide open and it seems there is a small public exhibition taking place. Without really thinking about it, Grace steps inside. There aren't many people present, and she is able to take her time studying the varied photographs and paintings on display. The theme seems to be romance – well, what else? – and the artists all seem to be newcomers and unknowns, but some of the works are very good indeed, and she is particularly struck by a large black and white photograph of a young couple sitting on a bench by the Thames, sitting side-by-side without actually touching. It's hard to say exactly what it is about the picture that resonates… but something definitely does.

Inevitably, her thoughts return to Boyd. Irascible, mercurial Boyd, who is far too attractive and far, far too demanding. Grace has a nasty feeling that she's already far too much in love with him for her own good, and she already knows she wants him far too much. Really, it's a desperately uncomfortable situation for a woman of her age to find herself in. Particularly given her chosen profession. But…

There is always a 'but'. With Boyd, there is always a 'but'.

Damned man moves like a great hunting cat – all muscle and aggression, tightly reined but ready to pounce. Despite herself, Grace spends a lot of time just watching the way he moves. He is long-limbed, athletic and coordinated. Unconsciously belligerent in the way he stands. A tough man. Very tough, in some ways. Unquestionably an alpha male. He's wily, too, and that fascinates her almost as much. Peter Boyd is a man who knows his weaknesses as intimately as he knows his strengths, a man who knows and accepts that the best of his glory days are already behind him, and yet is still singularly unafraid to keep pushing forward. Grace likes that. She likes the confidence in him, even the touch of autocratic arrogance. He believes in himself and that… that is incredibly attractive.

Perhaps it _is_ the heat, after all.

Perhaps it's the summer heat and the deep, clawing mix of need and frustration that she just can't seem to shake.

Whatever the reason, right there and then in that small, inconspicuous gallery, Grace makes a decision.

-oOo-

She thinks she will just surprise him. Probably, giving him absolutely no time to think is a very good idea. In fact, she is so taken with the idea that she's smiling secretively to herself all the way down the steps that lead to the squad room's double doors. Boyd is, after all, a highly impulsive creature himself, and she doesn't think he will ask too many questions if she marches straight into his office and simply kisses him. He is obtuse, certainly, but even he is not _that_ obtuse. She's seen the way he occasionally looks at her, seen the way he unconsciously gravitates toward her. No, what Peter Boyd needs is a nudge… more of a quick, hard shove, in fact… in the right direction. It's a risk, of course, but for some reason – and again Grace half blames the intense summer heat – it's a risk she finds she's uncharacteristically prepared to take. Nothing can be more painful than unrequitedly loving the man and being forced into close proximity with him day after long day.

Deliberately, she makes very little noise as she enters the squad room. Most of the lights are off now – it's very, very late in the evening – and she's fairly certain that Boyd is the only person from the CCU remotely dedicated enough to still be in the building. It's vaguely possible that Frankie may still be at work in the lab, but Grace doesn't think it's very likely given the enervating summer heat. There are deep shadows in the room, and a stillness that never seems to be there during the day, even when it is empty of personnel. The privacy blinds in Boyd's office are closed, but that isn't altogether unusual. Sometimes he closes them just to isolate himself, sometimes just because he's in a particularly bad mood, but at this time of night it's very likely that he's simply got his feet up on his desk and a whiskey tumbler in his hand. It doesn't matter to Grace. His door is ajar, and the lights are on.

It is a spectacularly brave thing she is about to do. Part of her knows it may also be a spectacularly stupid thing, too, but something inside her has reached equilibrium. The decision is made. Let the consequences come. If she is any judge of character at all, Grace thinks she knows how the evening will end. She thinks it will end in heat and sweat and damp, twisted sheets. Let tomorrow look after itself. It's not the way she usually thinks, not the way she usually behaves, but he is a long, long way under her skin. For him, on this hot summer night, she will take the gamble.

She steps forward, and at exactly the same moment that she gets an uninterrupted view of Boyd's office through the partly open door she also hears the one sound guaranteed to make her freeze. Quiet laughter. Low, breathy and unmistakably feminine laughter.

Grace can't see the woman's face past the broad expanse of Boyd's bare shoulders, but she really doesn't need to. She knows exactly who that muted, breathless laugh belongs to, just as she knows exactly whose short fingernails are raking down the length of his long back leaving dull red marks in their wake.

Frankie.

It is Frankie who is perched on the edge of Boyd's desk, Frankie whose naked thighs are around his hips. Frankie who is…

Frankie Wharton.

It hits Grace deep in the pit of her stomach like a stunningly, brutally powerful physical blow. It hits her so hard that it almost literally knocks the wind out of her, and the shock causes a simultaneous surge of faintness and nausea that makes her head spin dangerously.

Peter Boyd is… fucking… Frankie. He is quite literally fucking Frankie. Right there in his office with his immaculately tailored suit trousers and his white undershorts round his ankles. There's no mistaking the strong, steady rhythm of his hips, or the way Frankie is moaning and choking out his name. There is no mistaking the way those traitorous female fingernails are gouging deep into the smooth, pale flesh, or the way Boyd is growling somewhere deep in his throat as he thrusts into her.

Grace has seen many terrible things in the course of her career. And this, in a very deep, very personal way, is one of the very worst. She is utterly immobile, completely incapable of moving away, turning her head or even of simply closing her eyes against the terrible, terrible scene.

They are oblivious. Absolutely unaware of her presence. Far too caught up in raw carnality, far too focused on each other.

Still frozen, Grace catches stray words that she doesn't want to hear. She hears far too much, sees far too much. She is locked into her own personal hell, witnessing something that is biting deep into her with a savagery that is almost incomprehensible.

Boyd groans and throws his head back, and for a moment he looks so incredibly beautiful and so incredibly leonine that Grace wants to scream out in pain, shock and sheer unmitigated fury.

…But it breaks the spell that is holding her stationary, and she is finally able to turn and flee, not caring whether her angry, devastated retreat is heard or not.

-oOo-

The journey home passes in a bitter dream. Really, it isn't until she is alone in her cosy living room with a glass of wine clutched firmly in her hand that she reaches any kind of real awareness. The tears are hot and vicious, and she hates them almost more than she momentarily hates herself. Or him. Or _her_. But they continue to fall, spurred by rage, humiliation and acrimonious, terrifying anguish.

She is a fool.

The knowledge is sleekly, exquisitely painful. It slips through her like a finely-honed stiletto blade.

She is a foolish, deluded old woman who deserves to be punished for daring to believe that on a hot summer night she could forge her own destiny with a man far, far beyond her reach. Lost in wine and misery, she cannot fully comprehend the full horror of her own idiocy, and perhaps that's a very good thing. All she knows is that she is a fool, a fool sitting alone in the wreckage of her own stupid hopes and dreams.

Grace drinks and she cries, and she makes several attempts to write a half-coherent letter of resignation before furiously tearing each piece of paper into tiny, crumpled scraps.

The agonising minutes become hours, and at some point she finally succumbs to sleep, curled uncomfortably on her sofa, too exhausted physically and emotionally to move anywhere else.

-oOo-

The strident ring of the telephone wakes her. Her head is pounding, her eyes are sore and gritty, and she feels sick and hollow. There are brilliant shafts of light falling across the floor, tearing into the room through small gaps in the curtains. Automatically, she glances at the clock, and she is stunned to realise that it is well past ten in the morning. Grace gives in to the unusual and atypical impulse to curse loudly. Groaning as she stands up, she finally manages to snatch up the phone, thus stopping the hideous, invasive sound. She manages a slightly raspy, "Yes?"

"Grace?" Mel's voice says. She sounds surprised and concerned. "Are you all right?"

Grace thinks she may very well never be all right again. But she forces herself to say, "I'm fine… I wasn't feeling well last night and I seem to have overslept, that's all."

"He's on the warpath," Mel says, and there is absolutely no need for her to explain who she means. "Seriously, Grace, he's throwing all his toys out of the pram. Do you want me to tell him you're sick and you'll be in tomorrow?"

It's tempting. Oh, it's very, very tempting.

She thinks of the sheen of sweat glistening on his wide, solid shoulders. She thinks of the short fingernails and the vivid, proprietorial marks they leave. She thinks of the panting and the thick smell of sex in the hot, heavy air. The impulse to vomit is almost as strong as the impulse to scream, but Grace… Grace does neither. She says, "No. Tell him I'm not feeling well, but I'm on my way."

Mel's answering tone is dubious. "Are you sure? Why don't you have the day off if you're not feeling good, Grace?"

"No," she says, her mind made up. "I'll be in by lunchtime."

Mel does not sound convinced, but she eventually rings off, leaving Grace to sink back onto her sofa. Involuntarily, she puts her head in her hands. Perhaps if she can convince herself that she has simply had a very bad dream… Perhaps if she can pretend…

And again, the telephone rings. She answers automatically, realising far too late who is likely to be on the other end of the line. She tries for professional calm. "Grace Foley."

Of course it is Boyd's voice that asks, "Are you okay?"

The tone is calm, almost solicitous. Plainly, he has spoken to Mel. Grace does not expect his gentle concern to hurt as much as it does. Somehow, she replies, "Yes. I was just a bit under the weather last night… I overslept."

"It's this damned heat," he says. "It's like a bloody sauna in here already. Look, if you're not feeling up to scratch, don't come in today. I'm sure we'll manage without you somehow."

Grace swallows hard. Masochistically, she says, "You don't need me, then?"

His voice drops maybe half an octave, takes on that far-too familiar note of easy flirtation. "I always need you, Grace. You know that."

Somehow she manages to make the bitter sob sound like a rough sort of chuckle. But all she can say is, "Hmm."

"I'm trying to be understanding and compassionate here," Boyd's voice says. "And it's just about killing me. C'mon, Grace… Tell me you're not sulking about last night?"

A horrified shiver runs up and down her spine. Weakly, she says, "Last night…?"

"Profile for the Armstrong case…?"

"Oh," she says, not sure if she is relieved or not. "No, no. Not at all."

"Good. Look, whatever you want to do is fine, okay? I've got to go…"

Grace feels like a ghost. She cries. She pulls herself together. She drags herself upstairs to the bathroom. Half an hour later she is walking out to her car. The day is already blisteringly hot.

-oOo-

When she arrives in the squad room, her colleagues are ranged around the central tables. Spencer is eating his lunch, Mel is fanning herself with a thin manila folder, Frankie is sitting on the edge of one of the tables swinging her legs, a bottle of water in her hand, and Boyd… Boyd is leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, shirtsleeves rolled up, several shirt buttons undone. It is a strangely ordinary scene. One that immediately grates on her nerves.

Frankie looks round and immediately smiles. "Hi, Grace. Feeling better?"

Frankie. Frankie of the short, gouging fingernails. Grace somehow manages to smile tightly in response. "A little."

"It's this weather," Spencer says in disgust. "We need a damn great storm to clear the air."

"Why do people always say that?" Mel wonders aloud. "I mean, does it actually make any difference?"

"Do you want a scientific answer?" Frankie asks her.

It is Boyd who says, "No we bloody don't. Take a seat, Grace. We're reviewing Harrison as a suspect again."

Grace is unable to curb her irritation. "For God's sake, Boyd. Why don't you ever listen to me? He's not your man."

She sees the look that passes between Spencer and Mel, and she sees the slight upward twitch of Frankie's eyebrows, but when she looks at Boyd he simply regards her quizzically. He says, "I didn't say he was, did I? Did anyone hear me say he was?"

There are various non-committal noises in response. No-one, it seems, is prepared to get involved in a minor spat that could too easily escalate into something far more serious.

He has the most hypnotic eyes she thinks she's ever seen. Dark, intense eyes that miss very little. Underestimating him is a mistake, and Grace knows it. Boyd is very shrewd indeed and she instinctively knows that he is aware that something is very wrong between them. It mystifies her how a man who can be so very obtuse about some things can be so remarkably perceptive about others. He is a man of contradictions. And God help her, she loves him. She still loves him. And she doesn't know if she can bear it.

"I have work to do," she says abruptly. "You don't need me for this."

Boyd does not challenge her, but she feels his eyes on her as she walks away to her office.

-oOo-

From behind her desk, she watches them all. Watches the way they interact, the way they communicate. She watches Spencer get terse and angry, watches the way Boyd effortlessly cuts the ground from under his feet. She watches Mel unconsciously side with Spencer, Frankie unconsciously – or possibly very consciously – side with Boyd. The undercurrents out in the other room are subtle, but they are there. Boyd and Frankie barely look at each other, and Grace notices. She definitely notices. But when Frankie stands up to leave, Boyd also gets to his feet. Grace doubts anyone is aware of it. Spencer says something that Grace doesn't catch, and Frankie laughs. She turns away, and just for a moment her gaze locks with Boyd's. Grace sees it. Something passes between the two of them. Something charged and complex, something that makes Grace finally dare to wonder whether or not what she witnessed the previous night was only a spontaneous moment of summer madness.

Frankie and Boyd. Boyd and Frankie.

It hurts. It hurts far too much.

She wants him, but he… belongs to someone else. Grace thinks that's almost certainly the stark, unpalatable truth.

She looks down at the papers on her desk, and her headache pounds sullenly in time with the beating of her heart. The words on the papers seem to dance mockingly in front of her. She doesn't look up again until there is a tap on her office door. Boyd. Boyd in his pristine white shirt and his heavy, expensive watch. Boyd with his neat, jaunty beard and his dark, compelling eyes.

He says, "What's going on?"

Grace gazes at him steadily. "I don't know what you mean."

He steps into her office uninvited and closes the door behind him. "Don't piss me about, Grace. I'm really not in the mood. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says and she is very well aware that he knows she is lying. She wonders whether there are still red marks on his back beneath his shirt.

Boyd puts his hands in his pockets and simply stands, contemplating her. It's a long time before he says, "Is it the Armstrong case?"

So very obtuse. And so very good-looking.

Grace shakes her head. "No. It's… a personal matter."

She knows that admission will make him back off, and it does. Boyd has never been good at dealing with personal matters, his own or anyone else's. But he doesn't physically move, and after a few more moments he says gruffly, "Do you need to take some time off?"

She thinks that if she runs from the truth now, she will never be able to face it again. Slowly, she shakes her head, "No. I just need to… work through some things. In my own time."

Boyd does not look convinced. He says, "It's hardly my specialty… but my door's always open."

_It certainly was last night__,_ Grace thinks, suddenly struck by a wild, inappropriate impulse to laugh bitterly. _And, God, how I wish it hadn't been…_

She says, "Thank you."

Again, there is a long pause. His gaze is steady. "If there's something I should know…"

"There isn't," Grace tells him. She makes an effort to put an acerbic note in her voice. "Are you going to be leaving me in peace any time soon, Boyd? Only I have a lot to do, and not very much time left to do it in."

He smiles, and for a moment she honestly thinks her heart will break. "Your boss is a tyrant, Grace. You should tell him exactly what to do with his deadlines."

"Oh, I would," Grace says, hardly believing she is falling so easily back into the familiar bantering pattern. "But believe me, he's not a man to get on the wrong side of."

Boyd shrugs insouciantly. "I think he'd probably take it, you know. If it was justified."

"Get out of here, Boyd."

He turns and walks towards the door. With his hand on the handle, he looks back at her. "Are you going to be all right?"

Grace thinks about the question. Slowly, she nods. "I think so."

"Good," he says, opening the door. "Profile. James Harrison. On my desk by four."

"I'll see what I can do," Grace tells him.

And then he is closing the door and walking away.

She watches him for a moment as he stops to exchange words with Mel and Spencer. Watches as he grins at whatever it is they say to him. Watches as he finally heads for his own office, running his fingers through his hair as he goes. For a moment it is as if nothing has changed.

But it has. Everything has changed. And all Grace can do is quietly pick up the pieces and be grateful that her incredible folly has gone unnoticed. The pain and humiliation is personal, never to be exposed to anyone.

Leaving is not an option. Grace will do what she always does. She will stoically endure and bide her time. Things change all the time, she knows that. On another day, another night, the dice might fall a different way. She loves the man. She knows that, too.

_One day,_ she thinks. _One day…_

- the end -


End file.
